Cold
by WeWalk
Summary: I think about her all the time. How much she means to me. How everyday is a beginning as it is an ending...


I think about her all the time. How beautiful she truly is. How her usually long, dark and messy hair was wrapped into a loose ponytail the first day we met at the bookstore.

"_I'm sorry! I didn't mean to …" a dark-haired little girl, whose lips were quivering and ready to break into a loud cry any minute, disrupt my slow walk to the check out counter._

"_It's not a problem. Come here." I tell the little girl; bend down to retrieve Kundera, who would not appreciate his unbearable lightness being trampled on by the weight of a bumbling eight year old's foot; while I reach out to try and calm her down._

"_Amelia! Where are …" a woman, out of nowhere, grabs the girl, Amelia, even before I can reach her myself. The still unnamed woman says something to Amelia about staying put, then, as is drawn by the same unknown force, turns her eyes to me as I continue to stare at her._

I think about her all the time. How much she means to me. How everyday is a beginning as it is an ending like the first day we met at the bookstore.

"I think she was looking for you when she ran over me or… more like, she ran into me," I tell her as I safely tuck Kundera under my arm so I can extend my right hand to her, "Troy."

"_Amelia, don't go wander too far again," she tells the obviously bored little girl who runs off to another part of the bookstore, "Gabi," she turns back to me to shake my hand. _

"_Kundera… have you read that before?" she points to the book._

"_Yes. Yes, I have. I'm getting a new copy," I show her the copy I plan to buy; she gingerly takes it from my hands and starts to skim through the pages. "My friend borrowed my old copy a few months ago and returned it a sorry mess. I think he had too much wine while reading it."_

"_Yeah," she says slowly, "This is one of my favorite books. Do you like any of the characters?" she asks as if none of the major characters were likeable at all and if I answered one of them was likeable, she might think it was a reflection of me. I wonder if she is trying to get me to admit whether I am a Tomas or a Franz? I wonder if she is a Teresa or a Sabina?_

It is a busy Friday night at the restaurant, her favorite one in the city.

"_They serve the most amazing arrabiata there. I know the owner, Tony. We… you should go there some time." _

When I walk inside, I immediately head to the bar and order a drink. The bartender hands me my drink and I turn towards the view of dining tables buzzing with conversation. It takes me a few minutes to locate her. But the moment our eyes meet, I see her discreetly raise her left hand. Her ring is prominent in the dim lights and its glare becomes a cruel reminder of what I do not have, yet. She is still holding a glass of Chardonnay when she tilts it, careful not to spill any drop, to signal to the door where she wants us to leave this world we can never call our own…

"_I like it when it rains," she whispers against my chest, "It's a renewal of sorts. The world washing itself of its sins. I wish it can rain all the time."_

… while her right hand that is grasping the room key expertly opens the door where she ushers us into our safe, safe haven.

When we breach that fine line between reality and security, there is never a pause between us. As soon as we enter that door, all previous thoughts are left behind and we lunge forward to a time only the two of us will ever experience and can remember. Every moment is etched in my memory: every aching touch, every frenzied caress, every chaste kiss, every raw hitch in our breaths as we bring each other into another, more powerful realm; I store all these memories away for safekeeping, in the hopes that one day the two of us will get to look back at it differently, she less pain and I less longing.

When she is about to leave, I have to will every muscle in my body from stopping her just as I have to handcuff every thought in my mind from begging her to stay, because I promised I wouldn't be the needy person that she thinks I am.

"_Stay," I ask her for the millionth time since that fateful first night, "Stay, please." _

"_You know I can't," the look she gives me is firm and reprimanding, "I'll see you next week."_

"_I won't be here next week," I tell her firmly too, hoping she would finally cave._

"_Then I won't be here either," she gives me one last look and heads to the door, "It's always been up to you Troy."_

"_Gabi…" I run to her, naked, before she can reach the door, "Don't go like this. I'm sorry. I won't force you to stay. Just… just come see me next week. I won't ask you to stay…"  
_  
But I can't help myself. So, I lie and tell her otherwise.

"_Do you want me to stay?" she touches the back of her cold palm against my burning forehead, "I can stay for a few more hours."_

"_I'm fine," I manage to croak out, "You don't need to stay."  
_  
She doesn't believe me of course. She thinks my heart is as needy as my body.

How exactly can you separate the heart from the body when the heart is a part of that body? I can't imagine, not even for one second, the body without the heart for without a heart, every important physiological function comes to a stop. The body can longer pump blood which is needed to keep the circulation of the body's nutrients and most importantly, of oxygen, to reach the other organs; the brain for that matter. A cessation of blood circulation would mean that temperature regulation goes haywire, and our body becomes cold, dead…

A body without the heart is as good as dead.

I want to tell her that but when I stand and try to reach for her hand, I realize it's as cold as the damp sheets underneath us when our bodies were one…


End file.
